


An Interlude

by stardust_made



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Friendship/Love, Gen, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-26
Updated: 2012-05-26
Packaged: 2017-11-06 01:17:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/413113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/pseuds/stardust_made
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is leaning on the window sill and looking at the sea. There is an endless electric-orange swipe that runs parallel to the horizon as if someone has drawn it there, a line between heaven and earth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Interlude

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nausicaa83](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nausicaa83/gifts).



> I would like to think of this as a quiet moment of love—I've tagged it pre-slash, but some things don't necessarily need to be defined. Many thanks to my wonderful beta [](http://disastrolabe.livejournal.com/profile)[**disastrolabe**](http://disastrolabe.livejournal.com/).

  
John is leaning on the window sill and looking at the sea.  
  
There is an endless electric-orange swipe that runs parallel to the horizon as if someone has drawn it there, a line between heaven and earth. Above that line clouds spread, majestic and still, in all shades of grey from platinum to granite. Below, the sea stretches unperturbed. Its waters reflect the sky, but their depth swallows all difference in shade; the surface glimmers, opaque and silent. Its stunning monotony is broken only by a pale, rusty reflection along the horizon, inferior twin of the bright line.  
  
John breathes in and distractedly touches his face. He likes the film that sea air leaves on the skin, like an extra layer of damp, transparent epidermis. As his arm begins descending again, something on it flashes in John’s peripheral vision. He automatically looks down, but nothing seems to be different. He shifts, dragging his elbows a bit, and the barest scraping sound is heard. He lifts his distracting arm and twists his neck to peer on the inner side. Right. White flakes of peeling old paint have stuck to his navy blue jumper and are glowing in the early evening. The window panes and frame have seen better days.  
  
Mystery solved, John leans forward again.  
  
A close cry from a seagull cuts through the rhythmic sound of the waves caressing the beach. The cry seems to serve as a roll call, because a small choir answers in return, most of the voices distant. John squints and distinguishes some silhouettes of birds not too far up or away. Some of them appear to be hanging mid-flight, motionless. There’s no wind at all, yet John knows to the birds up there the sky is anything but tranquil. It is a complex, invisible maze of airwaves, passages, and currents. Some flows are barely a whisper in the birds’ finest feathers; others are strong and necessary, making them soar as if they’ve been scooped up in God’s palms and released to their destiny.  
  
John’s throat tightens to the point of pain. He passes a hand over his face, feeling his features scrunch under his fingers. He rubs his eyes and closes them, takes a deep, sharp breath through his nostrils, filling his lungs with the rich sea air, then stares ahead again. He hasn’t felt so numb since—  
  
He watches the sea for several minutes, body slumping forward once more. His head is an empty vessel as far as coherent thought is concerned. It floats gently, emotions swimming circles under it.  
  
The air is tinting so gradually that John is convinced it was always as dark as it is now. No, as it is now. No, as it is _now_. The orange line has disappeared, replaced by a pearly stripe that seems to come closer and constantly draws John’s eye. The more he looks at it, the more it fills him with cold, clear light.  
  
A sudden gust of icy wind brings goosebumps to John’s flesh even under the clothing. He straightens up quickly. His gaze roams water and clouds for a few parting seconds before he closes the window carefully and turns around.  
  
Sherlock hasn’t moved an inch. It’s hard to distinguish details now that light is rapidly seeping out of the room, but John can see him. Sherlock is sleeping the sleep of the utterly exhausted, a weight very much alive on the bare mattress. His left foot continues to hide under his right calf. His legs haven’t even begun to fold further up to his chest in a natural progression to a complete foetal position. The crook of his elbow is still tucked in under his head in lieu of a pillow. Only his fist has changed—it has relaxed, fingers now open like the petals of a rose in the sun, after a fortnight of rainy, cold spring caught it in mid-bloom.  
  
John wants to brush the back of his fingers over Sherlock’s coat; wants to crouch by the bed and press his face against the textile. He wants to look at the long, narrow sole of Sherlock’s shoe and trace Sherlock’s journeys on it, the ones he made alone and the one that brought him back to John. He wants to bend over and covertly marvel at the almost imperceptible tremble of the curl just above the shell of Sherlock’s right ear as the rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest disturb its peace. He wants to plaster his own chilly wrist against Sherlock’s and let Sherlock’s pulse beat warmth into it.  
  
John wants to _go_ to him, right next _to_ him. But because he knows he can, he stays put and watches Sherlock sleep.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Podfic: An Interlude](https://archiveofourown.org/works/742972) by [AfroGeekGoddess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AfroGeekGoddess/pseuds/AfroGeekGoddess)




End file.
